


Coffee & Cotton

by GranolaSuite



Series: The Meet-Cute Series [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, British TV Celebrities RPF, Cumberbatch - Fandom, Cumberbitches, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Business shirts, Coffee, Coffee spill, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fun, Humour, London, Meet-Cute, Nerves, POV Third Person, Romance, Trafalgar - Freeform, cotton - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GranolaSuite/pseuds/GranolaSuite
Summary: This is the first in a series of meet-cute prompts. I'm testing them to see if they work, so let me know what you think. If you like some of them enough, I may make them longer fics. 
The spilled coffee prompt - this one speaks for itself. You run into a lovely man in a coffee shop after spilling coffee on him.





	

Elizabeth rolled over and blinked against the morning sun, slicing through the curtains at just the wrong spot. A cat curled up at her feet and a pillow lay on the floor, haphazardly discarded in the middle of the night. She rolled over gently, hoping to see that she had time left before the alarm.

‘Oh shit!’ she gasped. ‘No, no, no.’

The power had gone out overnight, her alarm had not sounded, and the backup on her phone had not woken her. Not the best start to the day. Dry shampoo, a squirt of toothpaste, and a quick grab for her messenger bag saw her blazing a trail down stairs, out the front door, and onward toward the bus stop only five minutes later than normal.

She breathed a sigh of relief, a rare seat available at her disposal, and she inspected the blues, reds, oranges of the seat pattern. Someone before her had burnt a cigarette into the rear of the seat in front of her, it’s moulded plastic bubbled in a shape not dissimilar to a cigarette lighter. Across the way, an infant in a stroller cried, its mother struggling to stay upright as the bus turns wides around corners but bites the kerb of a roundabout. It’s a quick trip that culminates in an arrival at Becontree Station.

For all its downfalls – if you could name any – London had an amazing public transport system. In the time it took Elizabeth to jut through the turnstiles and race down the stairs, a District Line to Ealing Broadway had arrived.

Of course, there were no seats, she was late . . . ish. Her only given grace at not having a seat was not having to stare at a bunch of cocks pushed into her face as people crammed and pushed and heaved their way into already full carriages. There was never a dull day on the Tube. Onward through Mile End, Whitechapel, Tower Hill and Monument, Elizabeth took her leave at Embankment, much obliged to be relieved of the armpit her nose was facing.

The smell of body odour was replaced by the burnt tang of break dust and suffocating heat of the tunnels. Intermittent breezes caused by trains and the build-up of pressure and speed created a natural fanning effect, which was all but useless as you were clambering up stairs and heading for street level.

She had a few options once she hit street level. An early morning stroll along the Thames; no, not enough time for that. Straight up Villiers St, past the shops and street merchants and Charing Cross Station, or through the tunnel of Embankment Place. Scratch that, make it four options. Starbucks.

Not her preferred coffee – there was Costa, after all – but beggars can’t be choosers, and neither can than those running a tad late. Elizabeth checked her watch.

‘Ten minutes is okay, it’s okay,’ she puffed, aware she might look like some escaped patient talking to herself in the middle of the square. She pulled her coat up around her ears and slipped into the coffee shop.

As usual, it was full; what else would it be? There were Mums & Bubs, the businessmen holding meetings in corners they assumed were completely private, except their loud laughter and even louder boasting meant that everyone knew Simon was banging his mate’s girlfriend, Roger had got a promotion, and Steven was thinking about getting married. _The boasting of the out of touch_ , Elizabeth thought to herself.

In front of her, a lady answered her phone, yapping loudly and angrily at someone that sounded like her husband. Trying not to listen, Elizabeth looked around; so much brown. Brown tables, chairs, cups for tourists to buy, all featuring some landmark or another. Special Starbucks blend you could probably buy at Tesco for half the price, and the lady in front was absolutely unimpressed by his lack of responsibility, slamming down the phone and ordering a _Venti_ something.

‘Hello, small cap, thanks.’ Elizabeth held out a five-pound note and waited for change, giving her name only as Lilibet. At an early age, her mother thought it would be a grand idea to copy the Queen Mother by nicknaming her daughter as such. It had stuck, thankfully with lack of mocking. Behind her, someone ordered the same. Small cap, no sugar, thanks very much.

She stood aside and waited. The hiss of the milk frother, slide of cardboard cups out of the holder, and scrape of chairs across the floor. As time went on, it seemed to get louder, building into an industrial crescendo of noise until, at last, her name was called. In a hurry, she fumbled with a lid, turned quickly to walk away and . . .

‘Ooof.’

Far too hot coffee sploshed out, and the lid sailed to the ground like a flying saucer. A warm sensation spread across her stomach. And then, the horror. Not only was she covered in coffee, so was the gentleman behind her.

‘I am so sorry, oh god this is awful,’ she squeaked, stressed. The morning could not get any worse.

‘You could say that.’ The gentleman, dressed for business, shook his hand out at the side, droplets of coffee spraying to the ground. A white shirt was beginning to turn a rather dirty shade of brown, the stain spreading quickly like the embarrassment that threatened to turn Elizabeth a shade of beet-red.

She placed what was left of her coffee on the counter and reached for a handful of napkins, dabbing at the stains on both their shirts, muttering as she went. Frustrated, he snatched the napkins from her grasp and helping himself.

‘This is the last thing I needed today,’ she sighed helplessly.

‘No shit,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve got an interview at lunch time and a meeting in an hour. I can’t very well turn up looking like I’ve slept in the park.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Elizabeth pleaded, sure this was about to descend in chaos and screaming.

‘You should be. Watch where you’re going.’

‘Oh god, I thought I was. I’m running late, and . . .’ Her bottom lip trembled. Of all the things, she was now going to have to contend with tears in a public area. She bit down hard and willed the tears away, swallowing down the constricting lump in her throat. The old saying ‘choked up with emotion’ certainly applied to Elizabeth right now.

‘Look,’ he sighed. He didn’t want to be responsible for more tears that morning. It was bad enough he’d ended things with a spotlight hogging girlfriend. She’d whimpered and begged for him to not do this, not to end things this way. But after one too many sneaky paparazzi shots, he’d lost his temper, broken up with her, and asked for his house key back all in one morning. ‘It’s just a shirt. I can go buy another one. There’s no need to cry over it.’

‘Please, let me buy it for you, it’s the least I can do.’ By now, she was already running late enough. She figured she’d put a hex on her day completely by calling in sick.

He looked at her, her face wrought with anguish, ready to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. And he considered it, he really did. This was the last thing he needed. But, he thought, if it made her feel better about the situation, if she slept well tonight because she’d absolved herself of guilt, he would take her up on her offer.

‘Okay, sure. I think there’s a place or two near Northumberland.’

‘There is?’ she asked, a stray tear wobbling its way off an eyelash.

‘I’m quite sure. Let’s blow this place.’ He tossed the last of the napkins in the trash, a small metallic circle in the countertop.

‘Just let me . . . do . . . something first.’ Elizabeth plucked her phone from her bag and dialled her boss, who was far too forgiving at her feigned illness. She was sure there was a customer name or two called while the was on the phone. She could explain that later.

Villiers was awash with people; businesspeople on their way into the office and a swarm of tourists gearing up for a new day in London, backpacks and water flasks at the ready.

‘So, my name is Benedict,’ he offered with an outstretched hand.

Elizabeth shook it, solidly. ‘I know, they called your name when your drink was ready.’

‘Of course.’ He nodded, unsure of what to say next.

‘I know who you are,’ Elizabeth added nervously. Judging by the grimace on his face that followed, she was sure he wouldn’t want to hear that, and would have much rather she not say anything. He could, after all, afford to buy his own clothing. ‘So, why are you letting me do this?’

‘Will you feel better if you do?’ He was waiting for it, the inevitable gushing, the proclamations of what her favourite work of his was, or the teenager like giggling. None of it came, and he chided himself for his vanity, but warmed to Elizabeth because of it.

‘I will.’

‘And so, we go.’

 

An underground tailor was an experience for Elizabeth. Most of her clothes had come from bargain shops down Oxford Street, on shopping trips with the girls. Not that she had so many uses for male suits and shirts, but here she was. Benedict looked at her, wide-eyed and nervous as they stepped in out of the cold.

‘This won’t take long,’ Benedict spoke quietly as they approached the counter.

‘You’re not going to get fitted?’

‘Ah, no. I don’t have time. Neither do you, I imagine?’

‘Me?’ she scoffed. ‘I’m going home to bed. I want to start today over again, thanks.’

He smiled. ‘And I promise not to make it too expensive.’

It was true what they said about him, she thought, he is much more handsome in real life. Astonishingly so. And here she was, buying a shirt for him. Albeit a replacement, but still. A gaudy looking man with more hair cream than was available in the can appeared from behind a curtain, ecstatic at the good fortune the morning had brought him. That smile vanished at the suggestion of a plain white shirt, no frills.

‘Just one off the shelf?’ He swanned about around the counter, measuring tape around his neck and half-glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glanced at Elizabeth only in passing – a hired help for sure, he thought.

Benedict was used to this look. ‘This is my friend, Elizabeth.’ He gestured toward her. ‘We’ve just had a bit of an accident this morning,’ he said as he unbuttoned his jacket.

‘Oh, my. Well, we can get your sorted with something, I’m sure.’

‘Just a plain shirt off the rack will be fine. Fifty pounds, max.’ He looked to Elizabeth for approval. She nodded quickly.

‘Yes, that would be fine.’

There’s too and fro in every purchase, and this one was no different, the atelier determined to not let them go without at least £100 of Elizabeth’s hard-earned. They both refused, sticking to a £35, cotton shirt.

‘No one’s going to know the difference. I think my tie is okay.’

‘Thank god it’s black, right?’

Benedict disappeared into a change room, and she stood around nervously, well aware she was way out of her depth.

‘What do you do for work, Elizabeth?’ he asked.

‘Uh, oh, I’m in finance,’ she stammered. ‘For the time being, anyway.’

‘What are your plans?’

‘Sorry?’ she asked.

‘You said “for the time being”. What are you plans outside of finance?’

‘Honestly? I have no idea, just that I don’t want to be doing this my entire life.’

‘Don’t waste your life being unhappy.’

Easy enough for a millionaire to say, she thought, but daren’t say out loud. When he emerged, no one would have known that he was covered in coffee five minutes earlier.

‘Maybe I’ll resort to prostitution,’ she joked.

‘Shouldn’t we all?’ he laughed. One thing was sure, he loved her self-deprecating humour. ‘Or maybe coffee sales would be good for you?’

Elizabeth snapped her fingers. ‘You know, you may be right.’

‘I may be crazy,’ he sang.

‘But you just may be the thing that I’ve been looking for?’ she finished the lyric to hysterical laughter. ‘Hell, you weren’t burnt at all, were you?’

‘A bit pink, but no harm. It’s fine, honestly.’

‘Please don’t sue.’

‘Promise.’ He winked.

 

Elizabeth realised he was also stupidly charming when he wasn’t busy being angry about spilt drinks. She paid for the shirt and followed him back up to street level, where they stood awkwardly for a few minutes. Pedestrians shoved past and around them, some muttering about getting out of the way.

‘So, thanks for the shirt.’ Benedict patted the front of him down.

‘Anytime, it’s a regular thing. It’s what I do,’ Elizabeth joked.

He smiled. ‘Really? Is this like a, ah, pick up technique?’

‘How’d you guess? Works so well I’m still doing it.’

‘Figured as much.’ His mouth bent up into a lopsided smile. ‘Are you going back to work now?’

‘No, like I said, I might try getting out of bed again.’

‘Will you be hanging around later? Say . . . lunch time?’ he mused. ‘I’ve got an hour or two to kill if you feel like spilling more drinks.’

‘Maybe you can spill yours, that way I get a free blouse out of day as well.’

Benedict pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Give me your number.’

Was he serious? Elizabeth stood blinking up at him a moment as flashes of what could be span through her head like some 1960s Willy Wonka-esque boat ride.

‘Elizabeth?’ He waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, sure, fine. Completely fine.’ She swallowed hard, her throat dry and voice a little shaky. This time it had nothing to do with tears and everything to do with nerves. She rattled off her number without another thought.

‘Now, you going to answer when I call?’

‘I will, yes. I’m just going to Waterstones, grabbing a book, a fresh coffee, and I will spend the morning at Trafalgar with the tourists and protestors.’

Benedict checked his watch. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done. Must dash. Thank you again.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder, unsure of protocol or etiquette at this point in time, and disappeared down the street before she had a chance to say anything.

As she watched him disappear into the distance, she was sure that was the last she’d seen of him, except for maybe lawyers. When Benedict reached the street corner, he turned back, waved at her, and cursed his meeting.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
